


It's Here

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 18:13:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: The ball carries on the minimal wind, rising higher like a satellite beam.





	It's Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> happy valentine's day sunshine! i miss our boys

Checking your phone as soon as you get in from your workout sets a bad example for the kids. At least, that’s what all the coaches tell Aomine, but he knows well enough that he can do whatever he damn well pleases. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to go on Tinder or some porno app or broadcast his teammates naked in the locker room over social media. He’s just checking the time, and, satisfied with the result, he drops his phone back into his bag, ignoring any looks that might come his way.

It’s less than forty-five minutes to Glendale, straight through Phoenix proper and right by the usual house he and Midorima rent. He’s got time; the Sox are on a later schedule and he’s pretty sure the catchers here haven’t started taking their end-of-day BP yet. A few years ago, Aomine would have fought to take some himself, and thinking about a bat in his hands and a helmet on his head and a live pitcher, his feet digging into the dirt, does have a certain appeal. But it’ll be there tomorrow, and when the position players get here, and all through spring training. He’s not going to get too many chances to watch Midorima bat.

(Tetsu’s voice seems to pop up in his head about having just had plenty of chances last month in winter ball, but that’s not nearly enough. And it won’t be until next fall when they’re back in the Dominican again, rolling the long MLB season off their shoulders. It’s a fucking eternity from here, and this time it’s Aomine’s inner Midorima who admonishes him for being too dramatic. It’s not dramatic if it’s true.)

Most of the media aren’t here yet, only the members so low on the rungs they can’t escape and the ones who are sick of Chicago winters but can’t leave. Pitchers and catchers is the first sign of spring, but there are so many more important items on the list. So many players still unsigned this year, too, and Aomine sure as hell doesn’t want to answer questions about money. The players’ association doesn’t like hearing a superstar talk about how he’d play for free, and Aomine gets it. He’ll keep his mouth shut, pay his union dues, and try not to step in where he’s not needed.

He checks his phone again after pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head and replacing his still-sweaty cap. He’s still got time to screw around if he wants.

“Hey, Aomine—”

Aomine likes the Trib’s Cubs beat writer, really, as much as anyone can like a journalist. But he’s got no time for even than a quick quote.

“Sorry. I gotta run.”

“Hot date? Urgent appointment?”

“Sure. Write whatever you want.”

The writer snorts and turns, seeing one of the coaches and promptly making a beeline. Aomine grabs his bag and swings it over his shoulder, sending a wave in the general direction of teammates and temporary teammates. No one stops him.

* * *

The security team at the Sox park is nonexistent, but Aomine recognizes some of the beat reporters sitting behind the dugout. Groups of young children and college students jostle for position in the outfield, trying to get someone to hand over a caught fly ball. Someone, a minor leaguer from the looks of him, is batting right now; Aomine can’t see Midorima.

Then, there he is, leaning on the dugout railing, bright green hair coming out from under his cap, frown on his face as he talks to one of his coaches. The same old dance, the you’ll-use-me-as-a-pinch-hitter-so-let-me-practice versus but-you’ll-get-hurt battle that Midorima always wins. Aomine’s never met anyone quite as stubborn, other than perhaps himself.

He has to wait a while for Midorima to bat, but soon enough he comes up to the on-deck circle and watches the catcher before him take his hacks. His ass looks so damn good in tight pants in the sunlight—he stretches, swinging the bat over his head in an arc, and fuck. Those legs, those arms, the easy stance as he tries to get a feel for things. All the minuscule adjustments that make it seem as if Midorima’s taking a step outside himself, fixing something invisible, and stepping back in, more comfortable.

Aomine leans forward when Midorima steps into the cage, resetting himself in the box. He lets the first three pitches go by, one way outside, one that looked very hittable, and one right where he likes it on the inside corner (he claims to not like pitches there, that hitting them is inefficient more often than not, but Aomine doesn’t need to look at the spreads to know he’s fucking lying, because he always swings and nearly always hits them well).

Midorima crushes the next pitch into left field, what would be a solid double. Aomine claps, but Midorima hasn’t even stopped to look at where it landed (he knows already). He waits for the next pitch, and swings and misses.

Three pitches later is the first home run, a towering shot that’s gone from the moment the bat starts to sound against the ball. It’s so fucking beautiful, and Aomine wants that. He wants to go up against it, like they did in high school, blowout games when they were both taken out in by the fifth inning when they couldn’t successfully argue against it. The ball carries on the minimal wind, rising higher like a satellite beam, until it falls somewhere in the back of the outfield seats as the children scramble for it. Even Midorima had to admire that one a bit.

* * *

“I want to play together.”

It’s not what Aomine means to say (that would be a hello, or something about how well Midorima had done), not when Midorima’s barely shut the passenger-side door of their rented green Mazda and hasn’t even said anything to Aomine yet.

“I just…” Aomine continues. “I just love watching you hit. And I want to do that with you, and I know we just did, but, like, all the time.”

He starts the car.

“Me, too,” says Midorima. “We’ll be free agents…”

The soon at the end is implied, as much of a mockery as it is. A few years is forever, and Aomine knows they’re young, but that’s a few years of missed connections in the same apartment week after week. At least highlight videos come in high definition now, but that’s not much of a consolation.

“Soon,” Aomine says.

Midorima slips his hand in Aomine’s. When Aomine pulls out of the parking lot and leans back to check his blind spot, he sees the faint pink sunburn on the back of Midorima’s neck. It’s sooner than it feels like—after all, spring’s already here, and the year will come with it.


End file.
